


Uncanny Valley

by fewlmewn (Shouriko)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Androids, Fluff, Geeks, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shouriko/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a blast of biblical dimensions. Except it was a flood in the book. Well, anyhow, there was a lot of fire. And then something happened.<br/>I'm not ready to be an android. As a wise man once said, "There's a time and place for original Japanese Kaiju tapes, but it's not now. And you don't even own a VCR." That man was me. Before I became synthetic, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncanny Valley

"Your skin feels cold." I panic. He looks amused, a little surprised perhaps, and keeps nuzzling my neck fondly, peppering kisses along my jaw. But he might as well have said to me "I can't feel your pulse", for all it's worth.

I have to get out of here, _fast_ , before something bad happens.

Because it's not a "I think you might be running a fever" or an "it's hot in here, 'innit?" kinda thought. It's a "your abominable body might be shutting down, yo" situation. One would expect that by now I had already reached a level of self-acceptance high enough to trust my instinct and not think so lowly of myself. But when you used to be a genius scientist for the government, getting shoved into a surgical glove with a bunch of tubes, chipsets and synthetic _everything_ , you don't believe in yourself as much. Hence, the abominable man-machine.

I struggle to get out of his adorkable chokehold, and I die inside a little - I would, if I could - when he gives me the most heart-wrecking set of puppy eyes I've ever seen. I mumble something about feeling unwell, gather my sweater, put it on backwards, promptly proceed to fall on my ass on the bedside table trying to juggle shoes, jeans and glasses and try to smile awkwardly as I shuffle out of the bedroom. Teddy's giggling and rolling in bed like a cat, dammit. His platinum blonde hair are ruffled and he’s putting on his black-rimmed, totally-hipster glasses. Some days I just wonder how can he not work at Starbucks. But I’ve more pressing concerns right now  to wonder how wonderful his pumpkin spice lattes would be.

"I'll call you when I feel better" I offer as I rush out of the front door. More childish laughter, all the more cute because he has kind of a deep voice normally, and a "love ya!" thrown back at me, juxtaposed with a gigglesnort.

He’s never said that before. Of gigglesnorts, however, I’ve heard plenty.

I know something's really going south for two reasons. The first is that I know in my head I should be feeling all warm and fuzzy inside by now, since I just heard the first instance of someone caring for me on an emotional level since the incident in the lab, but despite what my brain thinks, my cheeks are stone cold and feel like a chicken breast straight out of the fridge. The second reason why I feel really sick and know the amount I'm worried right now is just the right amount of worry (not like the other times I cried wolf for sitting too close to the stove and believing I was about to melt down) is because right outside the apartment complex there's an inconspicuous white van. Too inconspicuous to be passing through the neighborhood. Like those “free candy” vans your mom always warned you about. Or, for those of you with the economic stability to purchase as much candy as you want, a white van like those they shoot amateur solo porn in.

All questions answered when I stumble and faint in Martin's arms, who was just about to conveniently appear from the open side door of the vehicle. Someone's hauling me inside the van and I hear, very muffled, someone else saying (to me?) "systems overheating" and "agent not flowing".

I really hate being a prototype. But on such short notice, after the explosion in the lab, I was the best they could arrange.

 

\---

 

Arrange is the right word. It's taking more than I care to admit to adjust. I have an open mind, and I'm adaptative by nature, but I guess there's something about having silicone skin that will never sit right with me. Or at least, I can't imagine being OK with living as an android for the rest of my life - which is shaping up to be very long - and probably never will be able to.

The first problem I have with the condition I found myself into is how I work. No one cared to explain, they just shoved me back to my life with an emergency contact and the promise of a psychologist. I figured "yeah, after almost dying I'm gonna need to keep in touch with doctors, hospitals and get my head checked", but I really didn't understand what was going on, did I?

I guess they were hoping I wouldn't have noticed. I don't have a lot of friends, so explaining anything to them is one problem less I have to deal with, they didn't need to know straight away. My mother died when I was 11 and my dad is living God knows where studying animal behavior or something like that. He's not old school nor conservative, but he's old and in touch with his naturist, Zen-self enough that the single notion of "androids" would probably make his head blow up. He's better off not knowing what his son became, analyzing beetles in the Rainforest gets you in contact with a lot of shit as is.

The best explanation I could come up with for why they didn’t tell me straight away that I was an Android living in an artificial shell was that the men in black upstairs, those who keep the carousel spinning, also wanted to play with my head a bit, and experiment how long it took an android to become self-aware.

The answer is: make better synthetic semen, or else it'll last until the first money shot.

They did try, I'll give them that. But if your intention is creating synthetic everything, then you have to know how the real thing looks, feels and tastes like. No one would bother making synthetic skin that feels like an expensive alligator handbag, not if you're going for realism and not an 80's B-Movie anyways. So why appoint the task of developing artificial semen to a woman in her fifties who never bothered to really go down on her second husband, or a scrawny lab dude who lurks the dirtiest websites but always dodges the estimated trajectory?

It was a close call. I had felt sick the day before that, when I pooped for the 10th time in a week, totaling almost my entire weight in mushed up broccoli and French fries (I love fries, but I try to balance it out with healthy stuff, OK?) and, admittedly, that got me worried. I made a mental note to stop overindulging in junk food and start eating more normal food, I owned whatever God had dragged me out of the underworld at least that much, but then left it at that. But it wasn't my stomach acting up that made me realize something with my body was not right, it was getting head from an ex-boyfriend that had heard news of the blast.

OK, I had been very close with him in the past, so I wasn't all that surprised that he had decided to stop by to see how I was doing after the explosion. It was on national TV either way, he was bound to find out, so I didn't get over my head thinking he purposely looked for news of me zapping cable or going to the library to skim newspapers like they do in movies. If it wasn't clear already, we were still in good terms, so we had some fun, for old time's sake. Some hand job action, and then he went down on me. All smooth as a baby's butt, until I cum in his face and he grimaces. Uh-oh, I've been here before and either he has been through an incredibly bad relationship in the meantime, or something's wrong with me, because he never hated getting a facial with such a passion as now.

"Dude, what the fuck? Ew." You're right, my bad. Broccoli and fries don't make the best diet, not together, but it's December and I couldn't find any pineapple. Besides, I didn't even know you were in town.

He stops me, and gathers some cum between his fingers and holds it up against the light.

O-kay. Not good. Very bad, actually. It's very white, like acrylic paint white, had I been with nuns for a whole year, it wouldn't have been this solid. This is beyond cloudy, this is full on spermatozoa rave. But it's not just that.

Imagine those movies with pickled aliens suspended in jars on a spaceship, waiting to be dissected by a team of latex-clad sexy astronauts (am I confusing low budget horror movies with bad porn again? Who knows). You know that stringy silicone stuff they pull from the limbs of dead aliens? My sperm had _that_ consistency.

The ex-boyfriend in question downed half a bottle of mouthwash and goodbye-d me from the elevator without turning back. I swear to the same dude who brought me back to life that it looked like my jizz had coagulated upon contact with oxygen. I had been in hospital for quite some time and hadn't fucked around (literally), so it wasn't an STD. I got really scared then.

But when I tried to go to the hospital - because I care about my genitals and wouldn't leave them alone come hell or high-water - a white van pulled up in front of my building.

A few hours later, I was sat in a weird looking office, like a psychiatrist's studio from the 70’s with an orange armchair and scattered plastic designer stools, with a bunch of "doctors" trying to explain what was happening to me. The fact that there wasn't an actual psycho-something among them is accountable for the confusion that arose from the meeting. It was all very straightforward. Too straightforward. Things like how my body worked, and what things I could and could not do. Someone in the HR team had compiled a nifty "being an android for dummies" booklet in comic sans that didn't help me feel more confident about any of it, but did come in handy, since the shock of finding out I was now "living" inside a synthetic body kinda made me zone out for the lengthy (and boring, I assume, although I wasn't paying attention at all) explanation.

A drowsy blonde woman with a lisp and hooded hazel eyes droned to me "If you need help, we have a dedicated psychologist coming in to the facility". Great, government-issued professionals. I'm in excellent hands then. But duh, I will take advantage of that offer, Cindy, or Cynthia or whatever you said your name was.

 

I haven't felt this weird, muffled depression in the back of my head since the first year of college, where everything was new and I was utterly alone. I guess now it's not far from then, though. I got used to living in solitude, shrouded in my own weirdness once, I will learn how to do it again. At least now I know how to set a microwave to cook mac and cheese without a stove.

Dammit, I should have brought up the matter of diseased looking cum to Cathy, no facials for me until the problem's fixed. That’s something I _could_ do in college. You win some, you lose some.

I ramble on and on, even when I'm alone, because honestly, if I don't continuously tell myself everything's fine and dandy, I might go completely bonkers quicker than you can say quiche. If you know what I'm talking about, because if you don't know what a quiche is, then never mind. But I would go crazy really fast, is the thing.

 

Hooking up with random guys in gay clubs proved to be a great outlet for the ensuing stress, and quite effective, as long as I do the blowing and not the other way around. It's a marvel how they patched up my brain, how I can feel sexual arousal and desire like I used to, how I can orgasm like nothing ever happened. It's a shame that when I do, that piss-poor excuse of an artificial bodily fluid is spluttered out. Another thing that makes me angry is how drinking alcohol is actually pretty good for my system, for how it works. Android engineering is not my field, but I get _some_ of it. And alcohol goes to a part of my body that processes it and turns it into fuel. What the fuel does is beyond me. But to even things out, because karma is a bitch - even more so if you're not a Buddhist but get to reincarnate nonetheless (I would have preferred lemur to android any day, thanks) - my brain was made to get addled by the fumes of countless margaritas anyway. So if I drink too much, I don't actually get drunk but my brain is programmed to make me believe I am. I so wish I had studied computer science back in the day, because now I'd be home, trying to hack my own cerebral cortex into not getting fake headaches and mock nausea every Sunday morning. I’ve always wanted to go jogging and bump into a hunk on my way across the park, but every time I had this thing called hangover holding me back.

But at least it keeps me busy the next day, and gives me something to do to feel more human.

 

\---

 

Enough flashbacks, let's go back to Martin holding me up, lopsided because he's a wimp, let's face it. The van's speeding, the man (doctor?) is taking a blood sample to see what's wrong. Only the blood is still not realistic to fool anyone if I ever try to thwart an armed robbery and looks like grape juice and it's not even real blood.

It’s cooling agent.

If you remember what I said before going on down memory lane as I passed out, the problem was that I was getting cold. Well, if the cooling agent is cold, then what's the deal? No prob, right? Wrong.

It's like those things named exactly after what they aren't. I can't think of any examples right now, mostly because the parts of my brain not necessary for survival are shutting off (or is someone shutting them off for me?), so think of this cooling agent.

It is meant to cool my core, my organs, my systems, but at the same time it's also meant to warm my silicone skin and make it feel real to the touch. That's one thing they thought of right, it's actually pretty useful because it has two purposes, and it always comes in handy. But to me, the user, it's more of a "warming agent". I know that both operations are equally important, but on a daily basis, what I really care about is not being a hunk of cold and jiggly plastic. When I abuse my mechanical and hydraulic parts, like joints when I move, or my circuits when I use them, the cooling agent can't keep up, warms too fast and my skin feels feverish all over, because the liquid doesn’t have enough time to circulate near the surface and release its warmth through my skin, it can’t cool down as fast as it’s heating up. So I need to calm down, relax, or drink some cold agent to balance it out. If I have a bottle of it around. Which would make me look like a vampire wannabe, but thankfully the agent doesn't really look like blood. Yet. Like I said.

But if the cooling agent is cold and feels cold even close to the skin, like now, something's wrong.

The following explanation comes from the chapter of the Android 101 booklet that was actually written by someone with enough common-sense to think this is an important part of biology. Not the same person who developed other details, clearly.

First case scenario: I'm overheating inside and my circulation stopped , so all the cooling agent is super-hot in the middle and cold all around, like a reverse hot pocket straight out of the freezer and thrown into the microwave.

Second case scenario: my systems have failed and the cooling agent feels cold because there's nothing to cool. But I wasn't made _that_ efficient on purpose, apparently, and instead I’m programmed so that the cooling agent would always have something to cool, some warmth to recycle to make my skin feel real.

Worst case scenario: there's a leak and the cooling agent is gone, straight-out poured out of veins and arteries, which are really tubes, and between all the nooks and crannies of the electrical components. Which means I might be short-circuiting inside and not even know it.

The fact that the doctor was able to take a blood sample is a relief, and since there are fail-safes and alarms going off remotely (the ones who alerted Martin and all the rest of the team to come to my rescue before I even knew what was up), all is good.

I legit pass out at this point, just as they're sliding a needle up my arm, with a passion this time. Where the needle'll go, only time will tell.

 

I wake up in my bed to the 24th marimba tune ringing in my ears. Shit, Teddy. My head spins, and I listen to the cheerful xylophone-y ringtone helplessly. I’ll call him back. Eventually.

I groan and my throat feels dry and my mouth tastes like metal.

“Fuck, sorry.” Ugh, Martin stumbled on my pile of VHS tapes for the 50th time, I know that tone. But at least Martin’s here.

“Leave them, I gotta arrange them for sleeve color anyway, I’m tired of alphabetical order, it’s useless.” I mumble in my pillow.

“Uh, you’re sure weird.” Well sorry if some days I just feel like watching something green with neon bus-seat-patterns on the spine.

“Says the man who majored in Android Psychology. How was Area 51, by the way?” Eh, I still wonder how in the world did Martin get his degree in such a field without the _world_ noticing.

“Shut up. Oh, and drink this.”

“More cooling?”

“Nah, it’s fuel juice.”

“Don’t call it that. Tell me what I have to down, I’m not a 5th grader, I might get it.”

“No you mightn’t, all the robotics you know comes from that early 2000s show with robot wars.”  
“Damn, I miss that show, they spat fire and had saws on the sides. When you big boys gonna equip _me_ with those?”

He pauses and gives me the most unimpressed look ever. “Drink up.”

After a few long minutes where Martin amuses me by trying to arrange the tapes by color, and during which I discover he might be colorblind to some degree – that or he has never seen a rainbow in his life –, I ask him what happened to me.

“Thankfully there hadn’t been any spillage. But you’ll need to come in tomorrow to have the pumps checked. From what Singh could make of it, it looks like you were having circulation problems. You weren’t overheating all that much internally, but still the agent should’ve been flowing but it wasn’t. So yeah, your heart might have stopped, they’re checking the logs as we speak.”

“Nice. Will I need a change of clothes?”

“Well, maybe. If something’s wrong, damaged or faulty, they might have to give you a ‘heart transplant’, as it were, and that’s at least a week’s stay to make sure they know their Operation tabletop and all the wires are connected.”

I worry my lip and once again I marvel at the fine work they’ve done with my behavior. Martin notices and hides a smile, but I know him well enough to know he’s a sucker for this sci-fi Jane Goodall shit too and there’s no amount of hiding that’ll shield him from letting me know that to him I’m _also_ a play thing, and not just a patient. And that’s maybe not good in the grander scheme of things between a psychologist and his client, but I’d do the same in his place.

I get up from my nestle of rumpled bedsheets and make my way to the toilet. Lots of exhaust fluids to expel up in here, I can feel it in my synthetic full bladder.

From then on it’s just distracting myself until Martin’s psycho-spider senses kick in and he pulls the behavioral questionnaires out.

“When are you gonna tell Theo?” He makes it sound like a question, as always, but it’s more like a command. He already stressed how _vital_ it is I surround myself of people I can trust and who would understand me.

“Oh Jesus.”

“Dale, come on. Talk to me.”

“Uh-uh, none of this, not now. You don’t get to psychoanalyze me in my tiny apartment. I need at least three more rooms and a chaise longue.”

“First of all, stop trying to outsmart your way out of this conversation. Second of all, I do get to psychoanalyze you wherever I want, that’s what the government pays me for. And we don’t want to disappoint taxpayers when you go on a killing spree.”

“The only thing I’d kill is you. And me, possibly.”

He gapes at me, and I realize the minute the words are out of my mouth that it’s the worst possible combination of nouns and verbs I could have chosen. You know what they say, when you’re lost in thought, you say things that you normally manage to keep in check. Well, I slipped alright.

A Freudian somersault.

“I… “ He tries to get back on track, I start throwing pajama pants into a duffel bag for the hospital. “Wait, stop for a minute and come here.”

“What for? We’ll have enough time to go over this again in the hospital, after they’ve fixed me.” If my stomach worked like a normal person’s, I’d feel like shit right now. Unfortunately, it’s just my mind that supplies the feeling, without actual organs I can vent out my emotions to. That’s no knots nor butterflies for me, but I still experience the anxiety (or the very occasional sense of peace and being at ease).

Maybe Martin’s right. I should tell Theo. Teddy. He’s been so good to me, and right now he’s the only thing that keeps me grounded, the only good thing I have. Too bad that behind this relationship there’s a big fat lie and I get the feeling he we won’t feel the same once the truth’s out.

Dammit, he just said “love ya” before I stormed out of his apartment. That’s why I’m getting the 25th nearly missed call.

Martin slouches in my bean bag, he’s done trying to fix me for today, at least.

I answer the phone.

“Hey.”

“Are you okay? Look, I’ll just get it out: is it because of what I said?” I don’t want to tell him “No, I love you too, Teddy” over the phone, but I can’t leave him without an explanation either.

“Teddy, why don’t you get over here, we’ll order some Indian and we’ll talk face to face? Uh? I really don’t feel like talking over the phone, you know me.”

“Yeah, I guess. Are you sure we’re OK?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t we be. But I don’t wanna do this over the phone, that’s all.”

“Alright, I’ll come right over.”

That’s Martin’s cue. Get your ass out of here, I have some tidying up to do.

“Tomorrow morning at 7 I’ll come pick you up. Be ready, please.” He looks tired and older than his 42 years. I don’t need patronizing, I’m not a total slob. I’m sorry if I’m the reason why he’s wearing out before time, but I didn’t choose to be a robot, while he sure chose to become a robot shrink. Dealing with my shit is his job. And after the day I’ve had, and the days to come, I couldn’t care less about him getting more wrinkly and glassy-eyed.

I nod and the annoyance is there in my shrug as I’m already starting to fold spare pairs of underwear and shirts, plumping the bean bag as soon as Martin’s up.

Passive aggressive neat-freak is the mode I enter when I’m stressed. If someone pisses me off royally, I’ll even start doing the dishes singing along with whatever Spotify throws at me. The next step below that is tidying up chairs as soon as the people I’m pissed at are done with them, as is the case.

He sighs louder than normal because it takes two to have an argument, and he’s 50% right.

 

When Teddy gets here, I see him from the window. I live on the 4th floor, but I still recognize his Gwen Stefani head as a little, shiny blond dot in the row of parked cars. And… I see his bike. Shit, that means he’s gonna stay the night. Which means I’ll either have to kick him out at 6 AM or explain why my psychologist has to pick me up at 7 to go to the hospital. There’s no good scenario for this. Okay, baby steps.

We make out in the stairwell, the railing is digging into the small of my back but his beard is ticklish and I’m like a kindergartener amused at the smallest details.

But there it is again.

The passing awareness that my skin is made of plastic and that someone’s really earned their wage creating artificial nerve endings for things like beard tickling, carpet burn and a 100% pleasurable stubble experience.

I break the kiss because I feel suddenly dirty.

“Let’s get inside and order take-away.” He’s puppy-eyeing me for the second time today, but now he looks like straight up mutt begging for scraps. So cute. I refrain from ruffling his bleached Goldilocks hair save I earn myself a slap across the bum. Which is best saved for later.

 

Once dinner is out of the way, we settle on the sofa to watch a documentary on the Venus flytrap and a family of spiders. I get the kind of shivers where it’s just body hair flicking but you’re convinced it must be bugs, but then plants win and it’s all good.

“So… what happened this morning? Was it me being too pushy or you were really feeling sick?”

“Oh, come on Teddy, I like it when you’re pushy. I was legit feeling sick, I even went to the pharmacy to get some antacid.” I offer, and he kisses my nape where I’m sitting in his lap, rustling the baby hairs there. “And I heard your poor excuse of a love declaration. And before I get to reciprocate, I wanna hear the uncut version.” I smile, so smug like a tomcat.

“Well, excuse me if you were storming out. But you heard right. I love you, Dale. I’ve never felt like this before, and it’s all your fault I smile at my phone even when you send me the poop emoji.”

“Well, grandmaster of romance, I love you too- “ here we go, the not-knot I’m getting in my stomach because I’m saying this while hiding something major to my significant other. And it’s not the indigestible Indian I insist on pretending to gobble down for realism’s sake. “- and you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, without a doubt. For this reason, from now on you’ll be receiving twice as many poop emojis, since you like them and I like your stupid smile.”

My words spill out naturally, but half-heartedly. I’m not doubting Teddy’s feelings, but how can he love me when I don’t even know who I am? How could _he_ possibly know? He never even got to know the real me, we met when I was well into the whole android affair already. This is what’s messing me up and why I have Martin as a number 2 on speed-dial. But at least it comforts me to know that Teddy is still number 1 on that list. At least I know I’m not an heartless, apathetic robot. But if things were to go wrong between us, I would have lost my number one guardian angel, and most importantly, the one guy who loves me and whom I love with all my being. How much is my love worth now, though, since I’m not even real anymore?

Closing credits roll over the smiling flytrap and the French-sounding names of all the people involved in this Canadian studio production.

Teddy nibbles on my lobe, gently, tugging the skin between his lips.

I exhale, content.

“You’re staying the night?” He mumbles a moist mmm-mm against my neck. “Well, I gotta get up at 6. Martin’s driving me to a check-up.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I know how it went, it’s not like I’m skipping town.”

“Well, yeah, I know. It’s just that… “ He pauses, sounding worried and confused. “I’m not saying there’s something wrong, but… why does this Martin dude always stay around? If you need to talk, I-“

“Teddy, come on, you know why. There are some things I just feel like telling _him_ , I don’t want to bother you with my life story.”  
“I just so happen to want to know it, though. I feel like you distance yourself sometimes. I wish I could help.”

“You’re helping plenty. I just need _a lot_ of help after what happened and Martin needs to stay around, just in case. I know you don’t like him.”

“It’s not that. I just can’t place him.” At this point I’ve turned around and we’re facing each other, but his eyes and hands are fixed on my hoodie’s strings, trying to even them out. “What do you even talk about?”

“He shows me some blotches and I tell him it’s Godzilla, then he deduces I’m a huge geek and writes my prescriptions. What else do you think?”

“You know you can tell me anything, right? About your parents, your job, anything. I’d listen.”

I don’t say anything for a while, weighting his words and tallying the pros and cons of telling him. I know I can trust him, it’s just that…

“I’ll be straight with you- “ and we both chuckle because OK, this is a serious conversation, but we’re still two idiots. “There are some things I haven’t told you. I will, eventually. Just, trust me. I just need to find the right moment and confidence to come clean. I’m not hiding bodies in the basement, I can tell you that much.” I’m just hiding my own charred corpse from you, but the government took care of that and I wouldn’t have proof if I were to ever tell you _that_.

“Alright. But I still get to love you, yeah?”

“Oh boy, you won’t get rid of me that easily. If you’ll have me, I ain’t going anywhere.”

“Good.” A fat smooch breaks the silence and we’re rolling on the couch.

 

Then we blindly synchronize to lower the volume, but we leave the TV on, broadcasting a special of “Aliens Among Us”. Right, it’s Sunday, that’s on. Today’s episode will feature US Presidents from outer space. When they mention Theodore Roosevelt I back up and look Teddy in the eye.

“Theodore Roosevelt, would you like to probe me in my bedroom? But be gentle.” I mock-frown and bite my lip like a 50’s drama actress.

“You’re just offering me ass because I might be an alien looking to experiment on you?” He chuckles, and gropes my butt with one hand, while the other he raises to my face and wriggles his fingers ominously.

“Take it as a welcoming gift from the humans to your superior race.”

And then the synchronized dance resumes, and we shed clothes as we move to my bed, on the other side of the apartment, beyond a room without a door that overlooks the living area. Fuck these loft interior designers. I like the archway and all, but if I throw a party I can’t shut the door and have fun in my room while others get wasted on cheap-ass carton wine.

The conspiracy continues in the background while I’m on my back with legs in the air like a very turned on turtle. He’s eating me out, and I’m so grateful that whatever circuits are in place for the sensations in my asshole are working ex-fucking-cellently. The UFO Historian speaking in the back of my head should really put a damper to the whole thing, but I get a geek boner around sci-fi stuff anyway. I know Teddy doesn’t mind my weird taste in hobbies because we’re on the same page for the most part.

He starts fingerfucking me just as the ad for the next survivalist show blasts through and I choke on a moan when it catches me by surprise. They both catch me by surprise, really. Between the mock supply run in a fake rundown mall the TV is advertising and Teddy crooking his fingers upwards, I almost make a fool of myself.

So the engineers did get one thing right, then. Placing all nerve endings, although synthetic, in the right position and with the right density definitely contributes towards a realistic experience. I’m too much of a nerd to know how to fake an orgasm.

Usually, I’m the one who does the fucking. Teddy likes it that way, and I can’t complain. But every so often, we’ll switch things up, for the heck of it. It’s kind of like a present, or a nice surprise.

Like when you get a birthday card, and you’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the party reading it under your breath, but then it’s a really cute card and you smile and go for an hug. And then there’s a huge gift card in the envelope and you grin like you just broke the bank on the Strip.

He fucks me to the sound of someone arguing that the Pentagon is really an alien mothership.

I cum all over my chest to the blasphemy of someone else saying that al-Qaeda’s attack was really an attempt to stop the aliens from invading us on 2/2/2002.

Then I realize that the freakshow only just began. My freaky-looking cum is all over my chest, this is exactly why I always wear condoms, and half of the reason why I always top (the other half is just that Teddy and I work really well with this dynamic so why change?). Because when I bottom I can’t really say “Hey, sorry to interrupt you but I’m gonna slip on a banana coconut condom right now for no actual reason”. When we switch the roles, I just try to cum into the bedsheets or into my palm.

Screw you Clinton, you distracted me.

Now what?

“Ohhhh fuck.” A bruising grip encircles my thighs. I take advantage of Teddy’s eyes being closed shut in his moment of bliss to grab the silly string that sprouted from my cock and hide it under the pillow.

Crisis averted.

“Damn, you’re so tight. I didn’t remember this being so _intense_.” I feel strangely proud, but it’s probably just because I’m a huge, glorified sex doll. I should get no merit, but as long as Teddy is happy, all is fine.

 

We get cleaned up, turn the TV off, throw away condoms and take-away containers and get to sleep, all snuggled up together.

I wake up to the front door shutting and I “shit, shit, shit, shit” my way out of Teddy’s embrace. He’s grunting and trying to grab my arm, but I slither away to get dressed. Martin crosses the threshold of the bedroom, Teddy rolls and puts his glasses on and proceeds to look Martin grumpily in the eye, like he’s challenging him to a silent Alpha Male contest. Neither of them is the Alpha Male, so I really wonder how this’ll go. But there’s no time.

“I’ll call you later, alright?” He makes a point to stop pouting when he turns to face me, to prove to me that I’m not the one he’s pissed at, he knows I don’t really have a say when Martin calls for check-ups.

“OK, as soon as you know something.”

I nod, and Martin drags me out while I’m dragging the duffel bag by the shoulder strap in turn.

I hope this will be just another diagnostic they’ll run and not an invasive procedure. I want to be back home already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I got myself into. Feedback, ideas and whatnots highly appreciated. Throw everything my way, really.


End file.
